The Million Dollar Movie
by StinkoGingko
Summary: How Tony DiNozzo learned to love the movies.


The Million Dollar Movie

Tony had mixed feelings about school. He was interested in a lot of things and he'd talk about them to anyone who would listen, but none of the things that interested him—football, television, cars, basketball, policemen, comic books, pirates, vampires, sea monkeys, zombies—ever came up in school. There were some things about school he liked: girls, recess, and Miss Rosetti, the permanent substitute, who was young and pretty with a small sleek head and Coke-brown eyes. Tony prayed that some terrible thing would happen to Mrs. Grover and that Miss Rosetti would have to take over his class permanently.

But for Tony the best things about school, aside from Miss Rosetti, were that he was never called Junior there and he missed most of the trips.

The DiNozzos measured the passing of time not by the calendar but by the changing locales. In the fall they golfed at Sea Island. Christmas was spent with family in London. In February they skied Chamonix or Jackson Hole, and then took the chill off in Jamaica or Hawaii. Spring was the time for the major vacation. They summered in Maine and spent August in Scotland.

Tony had never gone on the major vacations, because travelers as hardy as the DiNozzos did not take small children to Morocco or the Seychelles or Machu Picchu or Tsavo. Sensible people left small children at home with the nanny. Tony had had a Norland nanny, with a sharp Scottish accent and a crisp brown uniform. But until he was five he and the nanny had been part of the baggage of all the other trips.

The nanny was long gone now, as boys in school didn't have nannies, and even third graders couldn't miss half the school year just to order room service hot chocolate at Grand Hôtel des Alpes, no matter how delicious it was. Addie, the cook-maid, didn't mind Tony hanging around the kitchen while he did his homework, and she even let him watch TV in her room when she was busy elsewhere, but she refused to take on round-the-clock childcare.

While his parents were traveling he usually went to stay with the McKinleys down the road. This wasn't bad, as there were two McKinley boys, one older and one younger, and their cook thought Oreos were a reasonable afterschool snack and Spaghetti-Os a good dinner. And the boys had their own black and white TV, so they could spend the afternoon watching reruns of Adam-12 and Emergency. But the McKinleys traveled occasionally too. Last year's major vacation had seen Tony missing three weeks of school while he stayed with his father's DiNozzo cousins in the non-Hamptons part of Long Island. His mother had been charmed by Tony's picking up so much Italian; his father had been appalled by Tony's picking up the accent; and neither had been interested in Tony's newfound desire for pizza, subs, and lasagna.

This fall, though, the DiNozzos did not travel. Tony didn't know why, because his parents weren't in the habit of explaining things. It wasn't the only change he noticed. His father was gone more often and grumpier when he was there. His parents didn't seem to have company any more, and instead of cooking fancy meals for 12, Addie spent most of her afternoons smoking and watching soap operas. She seemed grumpier too, as if she missed cooking fancy meals for 12.

It was the change in his mother he noticed most. His friends' mothers spent their days playing bridge and tennis and golf, shopping, and getting their hair and nails done. For as long as he could remember, his mother spent most of her day at her piano, a half-full crystal tumbler and a full crystal ashtray close at hand. Uncle Clive said his mother was brilliant, and Tony thought that was probably right, even though he didn't like the type of music she played very much. He liked the sunny music on the McKinley boys' 45s or the brassy Sinatra music the non-Hamptons Long Island DiNozzos liked. And he had unhappy memories of his own piano lessons. After a year of knuckle-rapping it had been clear there wouldn't be a second genius in the family.

Tony could remember when he hated his mother's piano, because she spent all her time with it and not much with him. But he was used to it now. Maybe playing the piano was her job. He didn't see how it could be, since she didn't even give lessons. Sometimes she played at concerts, but for fancy people and fancy causes, not for paying customers, and Tony was too young and squirmy to be taken to them. But then he didn't understand what his father did either. He was old enough to see that playing the piano didn't make her very happy, even if she was a genius and did it all day. It seemed to him that Addie refreshed the tumbler and emptied the ashtray more often than she used to.

When he came home from school, he knew where to find her. He always went there and got a gentle but vague, "Hallo, Junior, how was school?" in response to his kiss on her cheek. Under the Scotch and smoke she smelled of lavender. Sometimes she even waited for a "Fine," before she went back to her playing. She never asked what he'd learned in school or what he'd played at recess and she'd never heard of Miss Rosetti and her Coke-brown eyes, though Tony would dearly have liked to talk about them. Then he'd go upstairs, take off his uniform, and, if the weather was nice, bike to the McKinleys. If not, he went down to the kitchen to do his homework and have his dinner with Addie.

On many days that was the sum of his contact with his mother. Mothers didn't get up at the same hour as schoolchildren, and adults ate dinner without the presence of young and squirmy children who wanted to talk about football or brown-eyed school teachers and who wouldn't appreciate the food anyway. When he had been small enough to still need tucking-in, his mother had occasionally drifted in, still gentle but less vague in those days, smelling of something stronger and more flowery if dressed to go out. But those days had gone with the nanny. He didn't miss the stronger perfume or the candles she'd thought appropriate to the bedroom of a small boy, and he'd learned not to miss the gentle vagueness of the rest.

Tony didn't exactly look forward to the afternoon meetings over the piano, but he knew even in his own circle it was strange not to see more of his mother, and he was alert to any change in the cool atmosphere of his home. So it was a surprise to come home one afternoon and not find her there and to be told by Addie that his mother wasn't up packing for the trip to Sea Island or off giving a concert somewhere. "She's having a lie-down," was all Addie would say, "and don't you go bothering her." As if _bothering her_ was still something Tony would try.

It was just that one day, and then she was back at the piano, and then a few days after she was not there again, and after that it became increasingly routine to come home to find the house silent and his mother having a lie-down behind a closed door. It became so routine that Tony began to wonder if his mother had gone off to Sea Island after all without even saying goodbye. Tony still saw his father now and again, but Tony, normally not shy about asking questions, knew that no answer would be given beyond "she's having a lie-down." And Tony didn't really want an answer, because he was afraid it would have something to do with the half-full tumblers and all the piano playing. If his mother was even odder than he already thought, he didn't want to know.

One rainy afternoon he came home to find an oily pot of soup on the stove. "What's that?" Tony asked.

"Supper," Addie said.

"I don't like soup," Tony said.

"Then you're out of luck."

"We could order out for pizza," Tony suggested. Even the McKinleys did this sometimes, and the DiNozzo cousins had done it every other day. "Or Chinese," he added. The DiNozzo cousins had ordered in Chinese twice. He loved the fortune cookies.

"You'll eat a proper supper or you'll stunt your growth. Do you want to grow up to be a midget, then?"

He didn't want soup and he did want pizza, but he didn't want to be a midget and he never won these arguments with Addie anyway. But maybe when Addie went out onto the back step for a cigarette, one of her mistress's crystal ashtrays in hand, he could nose around a bit. The chocolate-dipped biscuits—no one in the household used the word cookie, another oddness—were on a shelf now within his reach.

It was then that he noticed the silence. He looked at Addie, who said, "Miss Ellen's having a lie-down. Don't you go bothering her. Now go up and take off that uniform. If you're quick about it," she said more kindly, "I'll fix you some tea before you do your homework."

Tea meant snack and it probably wouldn't be chocolate-dipped biscuits, but it would save him the risk of getting caught while nosing around. He went up the stairs two at a time and stopped at the landing, puzzled by another oddness.

The door to his parents' bedroom was open, and his mother was sitting on the bed, sniffling as if she'd been crying, but not looking really sad, either. Too much oddness for one day, and he was wondering how to get past the door without being seen, when his mother said, "Oh, Junior, you must come in and see this."

"Are you crying?" Tony asked. Crying people made him nervous.

"I'm just being silly," she said. "Come in and see what your father has got for me. A telly for the bedroom! Such luxury."

Telly meant television, and Tony couldn't resist. So he went in, and there was an enormous television sitting on the bureau. Color, too, even though the man selling mattresses probably looked better in black and white.

"Isn't it marvelous?" his mother said. "I had no idea they showed such lovely old movies all day. I saw Dragonwyck, with poor Gene Tierney, who's had such a terrible sad life. And now it's The Conspirators, with Hedy Lamar. Women used to be so beautiful in those days, with such handsome clothes. Now it's all shag haircuts and peasant blouses."

All these names were unfamiliar to Tony, and he had no idea what a shag haircut was. He hated himself for it, but his eyes slid to the nightstand. The tumbler was there, but it was still full, and a pool of condensation lay on the coaster, as if it had sat a long time, forgotten. He hoped she hadn't noticed, but she was still talking. Tony thought it might have been more than he'd heard her say in a month. Or a year.

"This one is a bit too much like Casablanca, but still just lovely. That's why I'm a bit teary. So silly of me."

The movie was ending now, with the credits running. "See how clever this is," his mother continued. "I've got this little box and it changes channels. I'll become a terrible layabout, I'm afraid. I shan't have to get up for anything."

This was the most wonderful television Tony had ever seen, and even the McKinleys didn't have a remote. The clock on the nightstand showed it was nearly 4:30. "Adam-12 is on now," Tony said.

"What's that, Junior?"

"It's a police show." He wanted to see Adam-12 on this TV more than he wanted the chocolate-dipped biscuits for his tea.

But now a man in a gold jacket and wide tie came on, to tell them that it was time for The Million Dollar Movie, and to not forget that he would be Dialing for Dollars during a commercial break. "Today's feature is Penny Serenade, a moving story of love, loss, and family, starring Irene Dunne and Cary Grant."

"Oh, Cary Grant," his mother said. "The handsomest man in the world. We met him once, your father and I, in Cannes. So very charming, and so kind. And so wonderfully tailored." She patted the bed. "You must stay a bit, Junior. You'll enjoy this."

Tony was pretty sure he'd enjoy Adam-12 more, but he wasn't used to his mother inviting him to do even boring things, so he took off his shoes and his jacket and climbed up on the bed beside her. Maybe they could switch over to Adam-12 during the commercial breaks.

"Cary Grant," his mother was still saying. "We were all mad about him when I was girl. The only time I skipped school was to go see Charade. I loved that movie so much that your Uncle Clive bought me a Givenchy coat when I passed my A levels."

The movie started, and after that she was quiet during the movie but talked during the commercials, so that Tony was too embarrassed to ask for Adam-12. The movie was in black and white, disappointing, so that only the commercials were in color, and they were bad commercials, for used cars and karate lessons, although Tony thought briefly about asking for the karate lessons.

Tony didn't know much about movies. At school they showed Disney movies on the last day of term, too babyish for a third grader, and he hadn't liked them as a first-grader, either. Last year the McKinleys had taken a group of boys to see Star Wars for the older boy's birthday, and that had been really exciting, especially when Han shot Greedo. And Miss Rosetti, he thought, looked a little like Princess Leia. His DiNozzo cousins had all talked darkly about Jaws, and Tony would have traded his bike to see it, but that, he thought sadly, would probably never happen.

This movie seemed boring to him. His mother seemed to enjoy it though, laughing at things that Tony didn't find very funny and crying at things that Tony didn't think were all that sad.

But he liked hearing her talk, even if he didn't understand much of it. She talked about how much she loved movies about the war, and this wasn't a war movie but it had been made during the war, when everything was so hard and sad but everyone was so brave, and how she wished she had been alive then and doing her bit, but she remembered when she was a little girl that food and clothes had still been so hard to come by, so perhaps she had done even a tiny bit. She talked about the school chums that had joined her for Saturday matinees, and the teas they'd taken after the show and the trains they'd missed as a result. She talked about Irene Dunne, who was so very funny, and Vivien Leigh, whom her mother had so loved but who had had such a sad life and died so young, and Greer Garson, who had got Gable, and Carole Lombard, who had loved Gable but died so young, and Jean Harlow, who had died so young as well, and Lesley Howard, who had died in the war. It seemed like almost everyone she talked about had died so young, and had been so beautiful.

"I think Miss Rosetti's beautiful," he blurted out.

"Who is Miss Rosetti?" his mother asked.

"She's our substitute. When Mrs. Grover's sick."

"Miss Rosetti," his mother smiled. "You must say Buon Giorno to her someday, Junior. That would be so charming."

She seemed so much less vague and so much happier than when she was at her piano. She didn't touch her tumbler or her cigarettes. Tony wondered why she didn't just watch movies all day, even if they were boring movies, if she liked that better. Wasn't that the point of being a grown up?

At one point Addie came up and said, "There you are, you naughty boy. You should be down in the kitchen, not bothering your mother."

"He's not bothering me," his mother said. "We're having a lovely time. We're watching the Million Dollar Movie, Addie."

"It's got Cary Gable," Tony said, as if Addie would be impressed by this.

"Cary Grant, Junior," his mother said. "Clark Gable, but Cary Grant. We're fine, Addie."

"You was always wasting your pocket money on picture shows when you was a girl," Addie grumbled.

"Cary Grant," his mother said again. "So handsome. But so funny too. It's a gift to be so funny, Junior. You can't dislike such a handsome man who can be funny too."

"They're dialing for dollars," Tony said. "It's four hundred and fifty-seven dollars. Maybe they'll call here." He wondered how many comic books four hundred and fifty-seven dollars would buy.

"Addie would hang up the phone," his mother said. The phone didn't ring, and the caller didn't know that the right amount was four hundred and fifty-seven dollars, so tomorrow it would be four hundred and sixty-seven dollars. "It's starting again," his mother said. And now the story was sad again, because a child died, and his mother cried harder than she had before. Maybe she was sad remembering all the people who had died so young, because when the movie ended everyone in the movie was happy and hopeful, but she was still crying anyway.

Tony thought about reminding her that the movie had a happy ending, because maybe she'd missed that part. But then the local news came on, at a much higher volume. "Well, we don't want to watch that," his mother said, and turned the television off. She dabbed her eyes until they were dry. They were still red, but she smiled and said, "That was lovely. You've missed your tea, I'm afraid. You ought to go down and have some supper."

"It's just soup," Tony said.

"It's consommé, Junior, and Addie's is wonderful," his mother said. Watching him pick up his jacket, she said, "You're going to be as tall as your Uncle Clive, I think. You've almost outgrown that uniform. We must get you new ones soon."

"I'd like some Levis, too," he said, because his mother didn't seem to know that boys like the McKinleys wore Levis after school. "And Chucks. Or Pumas."

"Of course," his mother said. "Clothes make the man, you know, Junior. Look at Cary Grant." She smiled. "Perhaps you'll grow up to be an actor, just like him."

"I'm going to be a Buckeye," Tony said.

"What is that, Junior?"

"A football player," Tony said. "Or a policeman. Or both."

"I suppose all boys your age want to be policemen." Her smile went away, and she looked sad again. "You're growing up very fast. Do you remember, when you were a little boy, you used to call me Mummy."

Tony remembered. Once his speech had been a mixture of his nanny's and Addie's and even his mother's. But then he'd gone to school and realized the other boys didn't talk that way, and he adjusted quickly. Now he wondered if not calling her Mummy had made her sad, made spend more time at her piano with her tumbler and her ashtray. He kissed her cheek, which smelled mostly of lavender. "Thank you for showing me the new TV."

"Thank you for staying, Junior. Perhaps we'll see another Million Dollar Movie one day."

"I'd like that," Tony said, and he thought maybe he would like it.

But the next day the door was closed, and the day after that, and the day after that, and Addie kept him in the kitchen so that he wouldn't be making too much noise upstairs. Then they took her away to the hospital. His father took him there to visit her once. There was a TV in that room, too, a small one bolted onto the wall, but it was turned off. His mother seemed vaguer than ever, not smiling or crying or even distracted, and she no longer smelled like Scotch or smoke or lavender. And then she died, and the big TV disappeared and the piano was sent to storage and the house was sold and they moved to New York City. Addie didn't move with them. And he never got a chance to say Buon Giorno to Miss Rosetti.

There was nothing familiar in the city, but it was full of movie theaters and before he was sent away to boarding school he would scrounge money from his father's nightstand and roam all over, mastering its subways and its bus lines to find theaters. He saw everything, new and old, color and black and white, funny and sad, and sometimes a name would strike a faint memory, but by then he had forgotten where he'd heard them or that there had been a time when he didn't love the movies.


End file.
